Borderline

by Mishell Baker

  “No, you shut up,” Teo said. “Even if you were Inaya West, I wouldn’t touch you. Among other things, if I molested a newbie, Caryl would have Elliott rip out my entrails.”

  “Who’s Elliott? The black guy?”

  “Wow.” He blinked at me. “Racist much?”

  “How was that racist?”

  “If you have to ask . . . But no, Elliott is Caryl’s, uh—” He looked at me and seemed to think better of it. “I dunno if she wants me talking about that yet. You’ll meet him later.”

  I held the washcloth against my elbow, watching Teo irritably rub his head where I’d hit him. My brain sort of flatlined; I lost track of what we were talking about.

  “You okay?” he said, his hand still in his hair. “I was about to show you the viscount’s file.”

  “What’s the point, if I’m fired?”

  “You’re not fired,” he snapped, leaning down to rummage through his desk. His hair stuck straight out where he’d been rubbing it. “I’ll tell her I like you.”

  “You’ll tell her you do?”

  He ignored me. “Look at this.” He handed me a folder neatly labeled RIVENHOLT. It hardly seemed to belong in the mess of his room. Inside the folder were some sort of forms, filled out in careful block print with information that mostly made no sense to me. I wasn’t really looking at the words anyway, because the photograph clipped to them was the kind of thing that captures attention.

  I remembered him now, though like Teo, I couldn’t remember his character’s name in Accolade. He looked to be in his early thirties, with aristocratic cheekbones and a generous mouth. His hair was nearly as pale as his skin and fell in waves just to his collar. It was his eyes that I couldn’t stop staring at, though: almond shaped, fog gray, their chill softened by tawny lashes.

  “God,” I heard myself say.

  “I know, right?” said Teo scathingly. “Must be nice to be able to design your own face.”

  It was hard to reconcile Rivenholt’s distant expression with the feelings he had poured into his drawings. “What’s he like?” I asked. “Have you met him?”

  “Once or twice. Your basic aristocrat stereotype. Thinks he’s better than everyone, vain about his appearance, doesn’t like humans touching him.”

  “There are reasons besides snobbery that someone might not like to be touched.”

  “Either way, when we find him, my boot is going to touch his ass.” He hesitated, then turned to fix me with a grave look. “You know that’s a joke, right? I play by the rules, even if Mr. Pretty Boy thinks he’s above them.”

  “May I remind you,” I said, “that I know approximately jack about the rules?”

  “This is important, She-Hulk, so listen up. No violence against fey, ever. Not one drop of blood spilled. Not a scratch.”

  “What if one attacks me?”

  “Then you take the beating. Smiling optional.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “There are really good reasons for that rule—like, epic reasons—but those details are way above your clearance level. But this is all you need to know: we do not want to piss the fey off, and not just because if it came to war they’d wipe us out like a termite infestation. They’re behind every great—well, anything, really. Our whole society depends on them.”

  “Do they depend on us, too?”

  “Yeah. To them, our way of reasoning and organizing is the most amazing thing ever. Like their whole ranking ­system, with viscounts and barons and whatever? They got that from the Brits, ages ago, and it’s practically religion to them now. Even simple stuff like counting time, it’s totally foreign to them and they love it. Fey without human Echoes just sort of . . . drift around like they’re in a dream. Don’t even really have memories.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ll let Caryl do the rest of the lecturing. I need to make some lunch.”

  While Teo went downstairs to rummage in the kitchen, I set up camp in the bathroom. After a quick shower and a cleaning of my prosthetics, I debated with myself: using the wheelchair would be a pain in the ass, but if I wasn’t dry enough when I put my prosthetics back on, I could cause skin problems that would put me back in the chair for days. Finally I decided to risk it: I used a hair dryer on both my stumps and the prosthetic sockets, praying that would be enough. I put them on, along with a nice skirt and a short-sleeved button-down.

  Then came the hard part.

  I wiped a clear patch from the foggy bathroom mirror and rubbed some styling wax between my palms, trying to tame the worst of my cowlicks without really looking. I didn’t like being reminded that I no longer matched the image in my head, that I never would again. But there was no getting around it; I was going to need to put on some makeup.

  The ritual of application was like riding a bike, even after a year. Foundation blended out the slight pinkness of my scar tissue but couldn’t hide its cobbled texture. I could cheat with lip liner, redraw the left corner of my mouth, but I couldn’t erase the deep vertical slash through both lips where they’d split to the teeth against concrete.

  Putting on eyeliner took a kind of scrutiny I’d come nowhere near since my fall; I noticed for the first time how the scarring had pulled the corner of my left eyelid out of shape. I tried to wipe the liner off and reapply, but then I had to stop because my eyes were too wet. I grabbed tissues and tried some of the imagery Dr. Davis and I had worked on: a snowy cabin in the woods with a crackling fire. Once I was calmer I took a deep breath, deftly created the illusion of symmetry with my eye pencil, brushed on some mascara, and called it done.

  Down in the kitchen there was a sandwich waiting for me. Teo had already finished eating his and was poking around the fridge, muttering something about marinades and leftovers while Monty the cat wound figure eights around his feet.

  I’d never have expected to like a sandwich with no meat, but the way Teo made mine, I didn’t miss it. Sweet cucumber, onion, buttery-fresh avocado, some kind of tart cheese, tomato, and crisp lettuce with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper. An ecstatic profanity escaped me; Teo snorted and told me to wash out my mouth.

  “I am never washing my mouth,” I said. “I may keep the last bite of this sandwich in my cheek like a hamster.”

  “Gross, and not necessary.” Teo picked up the insistent cat, who seemed to be made of elastic covered in rusty steel wool. “I can make you lunch anytime, if you stop hitting people. I love cooking.”

  “That’s hot,” I said.

  He responded with awkward silence, filled only by the cat’s loud purring. A bite of my sandwich went down sideways.

  “So,” Teo said when the moment had passed. “Ever been on the Warner Bros. lot?”

  “Not since I worked as an extra.” It had been an easy way to watch other directors work, requiring no résumé or references.

  “I called ahead to let Berenbaum know we’re coming. If you need to do anything else to get ready, be quick.”

  Mr. Yesterday’s Jeans was insinuating that I wasn’t presentable enough? “What about you?” I said. “When’s the last time you had a shower?”

  Teo put the cat down irritably. “This isn’t a date, Roper. Get in the car.”

  “No. If can manage a shower, so can you. This is a big deal to me; I don’t want you walking in there smelling like sweat and cigarettes.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” said Teo. But he slouched upstairs, picking off cat hair as he went.

  • • •

  The Warner Bros. lot, like all major studio lots, is a massive complex of buildings that dwarfs certain small towns. Every building has the same warm butterscotch-taffy exterior, accented with lush landscaping that gives the place a homey, welcoming feeling. It’s an illusion, but a nice one.

  During my days as an extra, I had always parked in the garage across the road and waited for the WALK light
to wheel my suitcase of clothing changes and supplies over to the main gate. This time, we got to drive the car right onto the lot. Teo gave the guy at the security booth his ID and got a pass for the dashboard of his crap car. The security guy didn’t look nearly as judgmental of us as I thought he should.

  Berenbaum had his own little bungalow on a shady back corner of the lot, a cozy stucco outbuilding with a dozen parking spaces out front. Teo pulled right in like he owned the place, and despite the pass we’d been given, I couldn’t help feeling like an intruder. Even tourists were given a warmer welcome here than extras; the sight and smell of the place brought back sense-memories of debasement and exhaustion.

  As we got out of the car, I winced at the loud, grinding creak of the passenger-side door and glanced around for Berenbaum’s trademark red Valiant. Of course it wasn’t there; you don’t drive an icon to work every day. Teo as usual was not slowing down for me, so I hurried to catch up, making heavy use of my cane.

  Just inside the door of the bungalow was a cozy reception area with barely enough room for the sexy assistant’s desk and a few soft chairs. As if I weren’t dazzled enough, the walls were hung with illustrious photographs from Berenbaum’s career. In the oldest of them he had shaggy dark hair and bell-bottoms, but by the time we got to his first Oscar acceptance his hair was already zebra-striped white. Most of the photos showed him as I had always known him: a craggy, snow-capped man with intense dark eyes.

  And then there he was, standing in the doorway behind the reception desk. He had to be pushing seventy by now, but aside from a comfortable sag in the middle and some deep crevices around his mouth and eyes, he looked ready to live another half century.

  “Teo,” he said warmly.

  He reached out to shake the kid’s hand while I forgot how to stand up. I used my cane to steady my wobble and put out my own hand just in time for it to receive the same quick, decisive shake.

  “Another new partner?” Berenbaum said with a wry smile as he gestured for us to precede him into his office.

  “Just mixing things up,” Teo said.

  Berenbaum’s office was roomy, congenial, and strikingly absent the kind of self-congratulation that was so prevalent in the reception area. The walls, shelves, and floor were graced with the work of local artists; the only nod to his career at all was a set of framed posters from the Cotton trilogy, each covered in signatures. Even those were nearly obscured by a pair of potted ficus trees. I noticed two pictures of the red Valiant and three pictures of his copper-haired wife, each placed to be visible from his L-shaped work space.

  He gestured to a dark leather couch and perched lightly on the edge of his desk.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he said to me, his eye contact almost unnervingly steady. If he’d checked out my prosthetic legs, he’d been clever enough to do it while I was ogling his office.

  “Oh. Yes, thank you,” I said.

  Only when Teo looked at me as though I’d grown a nipple on my forehead did I realize what I’d said. Or rather, hadn’t said.

  “That’s Millie,” Teo cut in. “She’s in training. She doesn’t talk much.” The look he gave me suggested that I had damned well better not.

  “So what can I do for the Arcadia Project?” said Berenbaum, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit.

  “We’re trying to track down Rivenholt,” said Teo.

  Berenbaum waited for more, then glanced at me to see if I’d be any help. I just shook my head slightly.

  “You’re looking for him here?” Berenbaum asked, scratching his chin with a benignly puzzled look. “Black Powder wrapped almost two weeks ago. He’d be settled in back at home by now.”

  “He never returned to Arcadia,” said Teo flatly.

  Berenbaum’s hand dropped to his lap. “What? Are you sure?”

  “There are only three Gates inside the Southern California perimeter,” said Teo. “They’re all watched by people and double-­watched by magic. If he had crossed over, Caryl would know.”

  Berenbaum pushed off from the edge of the desk, moving behind it. “That’s just crazy. Let me try his hotel.”

  “We were there this morning. Apparently he extended his stay for a month, but also packed up everything and left. It looks like he hasn’t been there in days.”

  Berenbaum stood very straight, looking at Teo with a face so blank I suspected he was starting to panic. “Teo,” he said carefully, “what does that mean?”

  “If we knew, sir, we wouldn’t be bothering you in the middle of your workday. Do you know if he was in any kind of trouble? Did he do or say anything to make you think he might be trying to hide, or get away from someone?”

  Berenbaum let out a frustrated puff of breath, raking a hand through his hair. “No, everything was just the same as—Wait.” He stopped then, giving Teo a penetrating look. Then, just as suddenly, the iconic man seemed to wilt, covering his eyes with his hand. “I’m an idiot.”

  “What’s wrong?” I said despite myself.

  Berenbaum didn’t look up. “This is my fault,” he said.

  10

  My heart went out to the old man, but Teo seemed unmoved. “How is Rivenholt’s disappearance your fault?” he asked.

  Berenbaum straightened slowly, meeting Teo’s eyes. “At the wrap party, he was acting a little off. I was all caught up in my own stuff and didn’t really register what he was saying.”

  “Which was?”

  “He kept going on about how we should just get out of L.A., take Linda and go somewhere, just the three of us—­forget about everything and have fun together like we did when we were young. I figured he was just being fey, you know? Forgetting I had all this work to do in post. So I was kind of short with him.”

  “And this is a big deal?”

  “Johnny isn’t other fey. He doesn’t just take off on a whim. I should have realized something was wrong. If I’d listened to him, he would have trusted me enough to tell me what was going on.”

  “I hardly think that makes it your fault,” I cut in, earning myself a sharp look from Teo. I leaned back into the couch with a sigh.

  “So you think he went on some sort of a . . . vacation?” said Teo dubiously. “On his own?”

  “It sounded like he needed an escape,” said Berenbaum. “But I didn’t bother to stop and ask myself what someone like Johnny would want to escape from.”

  “That’s not our business,” said Teo. “Our business is getting him back to Arcadia. You know him better than anyone; where would he go?”

  Berenbaum steepled his hands in front of his mouth, tapping his fingertips together as his eyes took on a distant expression. The silence stretched out long enough that I shot Teo a nervous look. Teo gave a staccato shrug, seeming generally impatient with the whole business.

  “A spa resort,” Berenbaum said. “Winningham Grove or Regazo de Lujo maybe. Something inside the Project peri­meter, with orange trees. Somewhere we’ve been before. Maybe Elysienne. Check for him at places like that. Under all his old names, too.”

  Teo nodded, scribbling on a memo pad, then glanced at me. “He can’t make up new aliases,” he said in a teachery voice, “because fey can’t lie. Not with words anyway. Our languages are foreign to them on a really deep arcane level, so they can’t use them to create anything. We have to invent their human names. Rivenholt’s been coming here so long the Project has to keep giving him new names and faces every decade or so to hide the fact that he doesn’t age.”

  “Huh,” I said stupidly.

  Teo turned back to Berenbaum. “Do you know any reason why Inaya West would be trying to get in touch with him?”

  Berenbaum frowned. “They worked together on Accolade a few years back, but they don’t really socialize. I try to minimize Johnny’s contact with people who aren’t hip to the Arcadia thing.”

  “We intercepted a couple of messages
from her meant for him. She seemed to want to talk to him about something, and she said you weren’t returning her calls either.”

  Berenbaum gave an odd little snort. “She hasn’t called me in days,” he said. “Or maybe Araceli has been aggressively screening my calls since I’m behind schedule.”

  My eyes drifted over to the signed poster for Red Cotton. I wondered if seven-year-old Inaya’s scrawl was somewhere under the glass. She had never so much as been in a school Christmas pageant when Berenbaum found her chatting up a snow goose in New Orleans City Park and directed her straight to her first Oscar nomination.

  “Don’t worry about ’Naya,” he said. “I’ll give her a call later on today and find out what’s going on from her end.”

  “All right,” said Teo, rising. “Call us right away if you get any new information.”

  “You do the same,” said Berenbaum, moving forward to give Teo’s hand a brisk shake. “I’ll tell Araceli to put you guys through no matter what.”

  Teo was already halfway out the door by the time I ­managed to get off the insidiously pliant couch and back to my feet. Berenbaum reached for my hand more gently than he had Teo’s, and his eyes did a quick circuit over my face that made me feel as though he had just scanned the deepest contents of my psyche. He spoke quietly, still holding my eyes.

  “It gets better,” he said.

  The words blew into me like I’d left a window open. My brain was a white noise of the thousand things I wanted to say, and then I realized I was still holding on to his hand. I blushed to the roots of my hair, managing only an awkward smile and a half bow before hurrying after Teo.

  “Did he say something to you?” Teo asked after we got back into the car.

  “To me, not to you.”

  “As long as we’re partners, anything said to you on the job is to both of us.”

  “It was personal.”

  “How can it be personal? He just met you.” Suddenly he swiveled in his seat, looking aghast. “Did he hit on you?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that! God, why do you have to spoil everything?”